


Death Do Us Part

by WolfRampant



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A fight against bureaucracy, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale goes to Heaven, But There Is Afterlife, Car Accidents, Character Death, Crowley goes to Hell, Eventual Happy Ending, Heaven, Heaven Is Problematic, Hell, Hell is Not Nice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Separations, will make appearance a little bit later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfRampant/pseuds/WolfRampant
Summary: A married couple for three decades, Aziraphale and Crowley both die during a tragic accident. Well, there is still the Afterlife. Except Aziraphale ends up in Heaven, Crowley in Hell. Both don't want to accept that they will never see each other ever again. What else they can do but to start an epic fight against Heavenly and Hellish bureaucracies.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	1. Earth

Aziraphale always said that Crowley drove like the devil was on his heels. Crowley used to say that it might just be the truth.

Lately, Aziraphale added his age to his argument. He was over sixty, for God’s sake. He should leave this sort of thing to the younger generation, he was way too old for this kind of reckless and irresponsible behaviour. His reflexes were not as sharp as they used to be, he’d argue, and his eyesight was always so sensitive, could he at least visit a doctor and get his prescription checked?

Crowley always waved him off. After the three decades of marriage, he was used to the fact that his beloved husband was a bit of a worrywart. Decades of driving, more than two behind the wheel of the Bentley, which he had lovingly restored himself to road-worthy condition and he had yet to get into an accident.

Like most of his life, he came to regret it.

Crowley always knew that Aziraphale will outlive him. It didn’t matter that he was twelve years his senior. Aziraphale enjoyed a childhood free of hunger and dirt and cold winters spent in the apartment where heating didn’t work and water ran only if someone remembered to pay. He had access to top-notch medical care his whole life and the hardest physical work he ever had to perform was lifting some heavy medieval tomes. Crowley, never believing that he could even reach such a blessed age as sixty, abused his body with drugs, cigarettes and alcohol since he was definitely too young, never cared about his diet and the two weeks in a coma because of the shanking incident couldn’t help any. He was always sicker than Aziraphale too, his backpain often confined him to bed for days and his bathroom cabinet was filled with prescriptions he forgot to take. Aziraphale, on the other hand, walked around with more spring in his step than many men half his age. The Fells always lived a long time too. Apart from his sister who died of cancer, all his siblings were still alive and in good health and his parents lived nearly to one hundred. So really, the only thing Crowley worried about was that Aziraphale will stop taking care of himself and will die of grief once he kicks it.

He had no reason to suspect they would die at the same time. He had no reason to think that he would be responsible. He would never hurt his angel.

Like every action, he repeated thousands of times without any repercussions, that day he overtook a slow tractor on a narrow rural road where overtaking was not really allowed. The road was framed by a row of hedges. The road was that sort of country road where it often seemed it was made entirely our of blind bends, dips and worst of all, roaming sheep, the worst enemy of mankind. It was also wet after the sudden downpour earlier that day.

It was not sheep that emerged against him that day but a family car of the brand Crowley always held in the highest contempt. They were so close that Crowley could see the look of dawning horror on the driver’s face, the passenger's mouth slowly opening to scream. There was nowhere to go. The car was ahead of him, the slowly moving tractor on his left. Crowley swerved to the right. The Bentley skidded on the wet road. The roadside hedge had no chance against more than a ton of the vintage car. It crashed through and rolled over the field several times, eventually stopping on its roof.

Crowley could only hear the screams and screeching of the tearing metal. The seatbelts he installed in the Bentley on Aziraphale’s insistence as the only concession to safety stopped him from being ejected from the car or bouncing around like a rag doll, or the apples that rolled out of their shopping bag in the backseat. He still hit his chest on the wheel with a great force and he felt a sharp pain. Twisted metal crushed his leg. His glasses flew off his eyes and the broken glass cut his face. He felt dizzy and his vision swam. Did he hit his head too? He didn’t even feel that.

Finally, the movement of the car stopped. The dust settled. Crowley hung upside down from his seat, the seatbelt painfully digging into his shoulder.

“Ow,” he complained. Taking every breath hurt him. “Angel, are you alright?” 

No sound came from his left. Not even the sound of breathing. His heart hammering in his chest Crowley craned his neck to look at Aziraphale.

Just like him, he was hanging upside down, his seatbelt stopping him from crumbling on the roof-now-a-floor. His hands hang limply down. His eyes were closed and a trickle of blood ran from his nose.

“Aziraphale?”

No reaction.

“Come on, angel. Open these pretty blue eyes.”

Crowley moved his hand with some effort; his whole body felt heavy. He shook Aziraphale’s shoulder. His body felt limp, swaying slightly and his head lolled.

“Aziraphale, wake up!”

Was Aziraphale’s neck at an odd angle? No, no, being head down just screwed his perspective.

“Aziraphale!”

Even the blood from his nose wasn’t really running down anymore.

“No, no! Angel, please!” he shook him again. “Aziraphale. Please, wake up!”

His eyes saw. His mind refused to accept.

“Aziraphale!”

He cried for his husband even when rescuers got to the site. He cried even when paramedics declared him dead. He cried his name as they cut him out form the wrecked car. He cried in the ambulance.

Aziraphale couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. He was supposed to live to one hundred, to die in his bed, surrounded by his books. Crowley couldn’t imagine a world without his angel. 

He didn’t have to live in that world for long. He died on the way to the hospital.

  
  
  
  
  


Aziraphale straightened his jacket. The old jacket that was unfortunately ruined some years ago by an accident caused by a combination of a paintball and his nephew Warlock. How curious.

He was surrounded by light. He wasn’t sure where the here was. Or how he got here for that matter. As far as he remembered he was in the shop, picking apples. Yet he felt utterly undisturbed by the sudden transportation.

He knew where to go. He took a step forward and stopped. 

He never told Crowley, who always freaked over the slightest papercut Aziraphale got, but lately, his knee was bothering him. But now he was devoid of any pain. Actually his whole body felt light and strong, the way it actually never felt even in the days of his youth.

Aziraphale shrugged. Better enjoy it while it lasted. He resumed walking.

After a while, a shape started to materialize in front of him. It was the door. He recognized it from his time studying and teaching. It was the door to the Bodleian Library in Oxford. He smiled and quickened his pace.

  
  
  
  


“...AZIRAPHALE!”

From the darkness, Crowley emerged on the top of a cliff. He was naked, icy wind howling around him, whipping his pain-wracked body. The sky above him was black and devoid of stars. He looked down, but he couldn’t really see to the bottom of the cliff. The uneven ice-covered steps lead down. Crowley took one step, falling to his knees as his crushed leg gave under him.

He recoiled. From beneath the ice, a face stared him, its features twisted in horror and pain, the mouth open in a silent scream. Crowley looked at the second step. Another face was frozen there. He swallowed and looked around. He was alone. Relief flooded him. He knew where he was and he was glad that his angel wasn’t here.

Slowly he started his descent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Ineffable Husbands as the main pairing.
> 
> This fic will also feature Ineffable Bureaucracy but it will be some time before Gabriel or Beelzebub even appear. It might also feature additional pairnings if inspiration strikes.


	2. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's first encounter with the Heavenly bureaucracy.

The library turned out not to be a library at all, but a bare white room filled with more light and a desk and a beautiful woman with a body and face that would have landed her at the covers of the fashion magazine. Her face was framed by short golden curls, but most fascinating were her inhuman golden eyes. Golden all way through lacking any whites or pupils. She was dressed in a light cream suit and there was a golden brooch in the shape of the wings on her lapel. Oh.

She stood up to greet him as he approached. “Aziraphale Francis Fell?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale looked around himself. Apart from the utilitarian office desk, the place was absolutely bare, no touches personality in the room, just white walls and a plain door that he assumed lead further. He was actually excited to see what lay beyond. But what a depressive working environment for a person who had to work here every day. He pitied the woman. “I am sorry, I think I am rather dead.”

“Yes.” answered the woman curtly. “Do you need a moment?”

Surprisingly the confirmation on his suspicion did nothing with Aziraphale, just willing acceptance. It seemed to be his time. Well, once he reached a certain age he became prepared for the eventuality. There was nothing pressing he left unfinished only a new copy of Dorian Gray in his study, opened on page twenty-seven. His only regret was that he left Crowley to live out the rest of his life alone. Or maybe not. Crowley was still young. He still could find someone to spend his autumn years with and Aziraphale would only grateful. 

“Funny, I don’t remember dying.”

The woman gave him a comforting smile. “That’s nothing unusual. Dying is a confusing event for mortals. The memory usually returns in short order, after you settle to your next eternal life.”

“Usually?”

“Unless the soul suffered particularly traumatic death. In this case, they are spared the pain by not remembering.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He was a soul now, relieved of his physical body. How novel, he didn’t feel particularly different. The gravity seemed to still keep him glued to the floor, he still appeared to need to breathe and when he stopped to listen he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

“I am sorry,” he remembered himself. “I didn’t ask after your name and preferred pronouns. How rude of me.”

“That’s alright. My name is Namuel. I am referred to as She. Please sit down. And welcome in Heaven.” Namuel pointed to a chair opposite her desk. “Please sit down.”

Aziraphale sat on the offered chair. Even the desk in front of him was clear of material things sans what appeared to be a crystal ball and a white file folder.

Namuel sat down opposite him and touched the ball gently. It glowed light blue for a while, but whatever else she saw in it or deciphered from it was obscured to Aziraphale.

“Now, we have to establish your identity and sort you to your proper place,” Namuel informed him. “After that, I will walk you through your first steps in Heaven and introduce you to a person who will take care of your orientation.”

“Alright.”

“Now, we have already established that you are Aziraphale Francis Fell.”

“Quite so.”

“Born on the twenty-third of October, year nineteen forty-five of the human calendar.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“In London, England.”

Aziraphale nodded. Namuel kept touching the orb, and it kept flashing various colours and Aziraphale suspected that he caught some images, he would swear he saw a glimpse of his childhood home, but the pictures appeared and disappeared before his simple human eyes could focus on them. He wondered what the thing actually did? Could Namuel see his whole life? If so, it would be very embarrassing.

“And you worked your whole life as a teacher,” noted Namuel. “Teaching about...old books.”

That was one way to say he was a professor of the Old English literature and language.

“Hmm,” said Namuel still focused on the ball, with a slight frown. “Few sins here, mostly gluttony and sloth.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale coughed embarrassedly. His doctor always said that his overindulgence in sweets and alcohol might once day lead him to trouble. “Is it a problem?” He was already in Heaven? Could they still throw him out? Was this something like a job interview? He suddenly got nervous.

“Nothing unforgivable,” Namuel assured him. “This is just a formality to make sure that no-one undeserving slips through.”

“Does that happen often? Somebody sneaking in who shouldn’t?”

Namuel shook her head, frowning slightly. She obviously didn’t like that Aziraphale latched on this little information. “Once or twice in all of existence. It was sorted. Don’t worry, there are no sinners,” Namuel spat that word like it was a curse, “wandering around Heaven.”

Namuel turned back to her orb, flipping through various images. “Now where were we?”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening anymore. Maybe it was a flash of something in the orb, maybe it came to him on its own, but now he was sitting in the speeding car, country hedges rolling by. He gasped.

“Are you alright?” the concerned voice pulled him from the memory.

Aziraphale massaged his chest, suddenly feeling cold. He felt he is missing something vital. “I saw something.” 

“It’s probably your memory returning,” said Namuel impatiently. “Don’t let it bother you.”

But he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Now that he got a glimpse of the memory he needed to see more. There was a tractor, the sedan ahead of them, Crowley cursing…

“Crowley!”

“Um, what?!”

“I...There was a car crash. I died.” He could see it in his mind’s out, the hedge getting closer and then spinning and then a sharp pain in his neck and blackness. Aziraphale rubbed his neck. Everything seemed to be alright there.

“I am afraid so,” said Namuel sympathetically. “Quite a common cause of arrival. I think there is a support group for victims of traffic accidents.”

“No, you don’t understand. Crowley was with me. Is he alright? Is he alive? Is he here?” Aziraphale looked around as if Crowley would suddenly appear but of course, the room was as bare as before. He forced himself to calm down and turned to Namuel. “Do you know what happened to Crowley?” he asked pleadingly. “My husband?” he added, just in case.

Namuel shook her head. “I am not at the liberty to say.”

“But you know. You can,” he waved at the direction of the orb, “look it up.”

Namuel shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the rules. There’s privacy and such. You have only access to your own records.”

“I am his husband!” protested Aziraphale. He felt rage rising inside of him. It eerily reminded him of the time Crowley broke his leg and the officious hospital worker refused to release any information to Aziraphale because in the eyes of the law he and Crowley weren’t properly anymore.

“He is not. All earthly contracts are negated once you enter Heaven.”

Right. Till the death do us part business.

“Please.”

Namuel shook her head resolutely. “Sorry, I really can’t do that. If you want some information about your husband, you either have to put in a request to Earth Observatory or the Hall of Judgement if…”

“If?”

“If his file was transferred to the opposition.”

That was ridiculous. Impossible. Yes, Crowley had a colourful past but he already paid dearly for it and dedicated the rest of his life to making up for it. Oh, he often pretended to be a big meanie, but really had a heart of gold. He would let himself be hacked to pieces for other people. The idea of him in...in Hell was simply preposterous.

Namuel clearly understood his silence as his acceptance of the things as they were. “Humans have a lot of misconceptions about Heaven. I will provide you with a summary of how things work in Heaven, but your guide will provide a much more comprehensive tour. The main thing…”

Aziraphale should probably pay attention. But his mind was full only of thought of Crowley.

Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe Crowley was just in the next room, getting his own orientation. Maybe he will walk through the door and he will be waiting on the other side. But if that was that, why would Namuel simply not say so, rules or not? Aziraphale had a feeling she was avoiding answering his question outright because he wouldn’t like it.

There was hope that Crowley was alive, hurt in the accident, devastated by Aziraphale’s passing, but alive. 

But Aziraphale died. The Bentley wasn’t a very safe car and they were speeding so...Aziraphale simply had to know. He wouldn’t be able to relax without knowing. He was in Heaven, for God’s sake. He should be overjoyed, he should be looking forward to exploring the Paradise, meet with loved ones that preceded him. He should be not wracked with uncertainty and anxiety. 

He eyed the orb while Namiel droned on. She used it to look up information about his life. Crowley was a big, no the biggest part of his life. There should be information about him too.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he leaped and took the glass orb into his hands. It didn’t feel like glass, it felt like holding a miniature sun. He heard Namuel scream “What you are doing!?” in a shrill voice and then searing heat travelled up his arms and his eyes were filled with blinding light and he Saw. He saw everything and at the same time nothing. The pictures, pictures of his life moved before him too quickly, he couldn’t really grasp them to look closer. He desperately tried to think of Crowley and he appeared. Crowley on their wedding day, the first one, not the official one, beaming at him. Crowley when he first so him, looking bored, leaning on the garden fence, a duffel bag at his feet. Crowley, making him pancakes for breakfast, just this morning. Then…

The orb was snatched out of his hand by a newcomer, small thing dark-skinned man dressed in light beige clothes. Aziraphale collapsed into a chair breathing hard. he had what he wanted.

“What do you think you are doing?!” shouted Namuel, red-faced. “That’s not for humans to use. It can destroy your mind.”

Aziraphale’s mind was already destroyed. One line was seared into it. _FELL, Crowley; Files transferred to Hell._

“He is in Hell.” he moaned. There were tear stinging his eyes. 

“What?” asked the newcomer.

“He,” Namuel pointed towards Aziraphale as if there was a different, “had become distraught over the fate of his husband.”

“And you told him?!

“No, Cassiel, I did not.” Namuel sounded offended. “He grabbed my See-Eye and started looking at himself.”

“You should know better than to allow that. Your job is to keep the new souls calm, so any bad news can be broken to them slowly.”

“It isn’t my fault. I did everything by the book.”

“You obviously failed. I’ll make sure there is a note in your file.”

Namuel made a protesting sound. Aziraphale felt vaguely guilty about getting her in trouble, but he had a greater concern. He wasn’t going to spend eternity with Crowley. He gave out a sob.

“Right. I am taking him out to calm down,” said Cassiel, taking Aziraphale by the arm and making him stand up.

“But I didn’t finish briefing him.”

“Give him the packet. I am sure his guide will fill him in on anything you’ve missed.”

Some brochures were pressed into his hands. Then Cassiel lead him out, to what looked like a big glass lobby. Aziraphale could see some trees and buildings beyond the rotating door. There were other people going in and out but they all ignored him. Cassiel made him sit on one of the chairs lining the wall.

“No, please, I have to help Crowley.”

“He is beyond help,” said Cassiel. He didn’t sound unsympathetic, but his voice was harsh all the same.

“Crowley doesn’t deserve to be in Hell. He is a good man!”

“If he didn’t deserve to be in Hell, he wouldn’t be there.”

“You don’t understand!” wailed Aziraphale. “You don’t have anyone in Hell.”

“I do,” said Cassiel flatly. “Just learn to live with it.”

Aziraphale stared at the man, being, angel, whatever. But Cassiel ignored him instead of looking towards the door. “I think your guide is here.”

Anathema rushed towards him. When Aziraphale last saw her, lying dead in her casket during her funeral, she was old and wrinkled. And very very dead. Now she was a young woman, full of vitality. She hugged him.

“Aziraphale! What happened? Why are you crying? You are in Heaven!”

“Well, I leave you in her hands,” muttered Cassiel. “Enjoy your stay.”

But Aziraphale knew he won’t be able to do that. There was no Heaven without Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Crowley gets to Hell. It's not pleasant.


	3. Hell

The Stairway to Hell, the name Crowley had given to the path, was getting narrower and steeper. With his injured leg, it was getting more and more difficult to stop himself straight. He eventually resorted to crawling feet first on his fours but even that was getting dangerous. he already slipped on the ice several times. The faces under the ice were closer too, and Crowley very much wished he could close his eyes and not see their terrified expressions. Worse was, sometimes he had a feeling they were watching, that their eyes moved or even blinked. Were they aware of what was going on around them?

He would also swear that he saw lights beneath him. Not the orange light of hot infernal fire one would imagine but harsh brightness of the industrial lighting. Crowley was kind of glad that he had never read Dante’s Inferno; the classic literature was one of his angel’s passions anyway. This way he won’t be spoiled in case Dante got it right and he won’t be disappointed if he got it wrong.

The stairway eventually disappeared. The only way down was to climb down. It seemed impossible for a man with at the very least broken ankle and bruised chest. Crowley tried anyway. He tried to find the purchase on the rock. He got hold of one of the protrusions on the rock and started scaling down. He didn’t get far. His leg gave in, his fingers slipped. He tumbled down. Several times he hit himself over the ragged rock. Then he was in a free fall. Crowley screamed and his voice echoed far and wide.

He hit the hard ground. If he was still alive Crowley would have no doubt that his bones would have shattered and his internal organs would have scattered around. But he was dead and he was still in one piece.

A foot kicked him hard in the ribs. Crowley groaned in pain. It had to hit precisely to the place of his ribs.

“Get up, vermin.” growled a voice above him.

Crowley looked up and recoiled. Above him stood what must have been the ugliest thing he had ever seen. There was the mouth of thin sharp teeth. Above it was one huge back eye and its scalp was covered in spikes. Its body was huge and its skin resembled that of the elephant in textures

The demon, because it must have been a demon since Crowley was in Hell, held a staff ended with a heavy iron ball. Now he hit Crowley in the side with the end of it. “I said get up, human filth.”

Slowly Crowley got to his feet. There were other people picking themselves from the ground around him and more were crashing with loud thuds all the time. There were even more demons around, all big and scary looking and all were herding the unfortunate humans towards a huge gaping hole that lead to the ground with kicks and wallops with their weapons.

Crowley joined the shuffling tide of humanity and entered the tunnel. Inside it looked a sewer. Horrible smelling much that reached up to their ankles even covered the ground. Crowley could hear screaming and roaring in the distance. Many people around him whimpered.

Eventually, they were stopped by a back of a line that disappeared to the distance.

“What are we waiting for?” someone behind Crowley whispered. The question was answered only with shrugs.

It was freezing cold and the line moved very slowly. The demons roamed around. Whenever someone dared to voice a complaint that it took too long or that it was cold, the demons appeared seemingly out of nowhere, beating the unfortunate soul bloody and dragging them to the back of the line. So they kept silent, huddling closer together.

He was glad that Aziraphale wasn’t here. His husband hated filth so much. But then, there was no chance that Aziraphale would land himself in Hell. He always had a need to help every living thing, adopting strays, always insisting they pick hitchhikers, even volunteer to watch Mrs. Young’s son, who was a literal spawn of the devil. 

Crowley didn’t know how long he stood in line. There was no way to keep time and it seems to pass sluggishly. He felt totally frozen. By the time he reached his destination and was shoved into a small office - more of a tiny cramped cubicle - he couldn’t feel his feet, he was shivering from head to toes and his brain wasn’t functioning properly.

“Name?” said the being seated behind the desk. At first glance, the man looked like a human. he was small and wiry and he was mostly bald. The only thing demonic was the fact that both his eye-sockets were bloody and empty.

“Name?” he repeated. His voice sounded monotonous and bored.

“Crowley Fell.”

Despite not having any eyes to see with, the demon looked at the long scroll covered with a tiny script. The end of the scroll wasn’t even visible. It rolled from the desk and disappeared in his lap. The demon studied the list with a frown.

“I have no Crowley Fell here,” he informed him.

Crowley gave him a smile full of cheer he didn’t feel. “Probably a mistake.”

The demon turned his eyeless face to him. “But I have Anthony Joshua Crowley.”

“That’s not me.” hissed Crowley.

“Don’t lie to me.” said the demon, still in his flat monotonous tone. “I can tell when you try to lie.”

“I changed my name legally after my wedding,” he said forcefully. “I am Crowley Fell since then.”

“Human laws have no meaning in Hell.” droned the demon. “You were baptized Anthony Joshua Crowley, you are then Anthony Joshua Crowley.” before Crowley had a chance to protest the demon handed him a paper. It was filthy, had dog ears and some of the letters were smudged. “Sign it.”

“What is it?” the long experience taught Crowley not to sign any paperwork if he wasn’t sure what he was signing exactly.

“Confirmation of your arrival to Hell.” Crowley skimmed the text, at least what he could read, and it seemed to be exactly that. The demons handed him a pen and he scratched his signature.

“Do you wish to lodge an appeal?”

“Um...appeal?”

“Appeal to have your placement in Hell reconsidered. Almost every mortal who arrives here protest that this is a misunderstanding, that they are good insert a denomination of your choice here.”

“What will happen if I lodge this appeal?” 

“The majority of the appeals are automatically rejected and discarded.” said the demon. Crowley swallowed. So there was to be no trial, no chance to plead his case. But then again, what was there to plead about? Crowley knew why he was in Hell and he knew he was guilty.

“Are any appeals successful?” he asked.

“Since the creation of humanity, one hundred eighty-six appeals were sent for further review. Of these only five had been upheld and the souls in question were allowed to enter the Paradise. All of these occurred before the Purgatory has been established.”

An appeal in Crowley’s case would be a waste of time anyway. The image of Aziraphale flashed in front of his eyes. He was a killer, plain and simple. He killed his angel. For that alone, he deserved whatever punishment Hell had in store for him. And if he added everything he did during his lifetime, all the people he hurt, the lives he ruined...no, Hell was where he belonged.

“No, I don’t wish to file an appeal.”

The demon gave him another filthy paper. “Sign here.” Crowley signed.

“You may proceed.” said the demon and pointed to a door behind himself.

“Um, what is behind the door?” asked Crowley apprehensive.

“We call it the Introduction area. You will see.”

Reluctantly Crowley opened the door. The pitch blackness lay beyond.

“Well, get on with it. There is a huge line waiting outside and we are short-staffed.” 

Crowley took one step beyond the threshold. There was no floor and he plunged into darkness.


	4. Hell II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley meets some old acquiantances in Hell.

There was a strange thing about Hell. It was pitch dark, absolutely no light was switched on in the place he landed, and still, Crowley could see with perfect clarity the figure that materialized in front of him.

“Crowley, I knew you would come!”

“Liam?!”

Liam in question looked exactly as Crowley last saw him, twenty-three years ago. The same flat face, same watery blue eyes and pale complexion made worse by religious avoidance to sunlight; weeks before his death Liam had become paranoid, claiming that the sun was burning him. Even his clothes were the same as on the day he died, more than forty-three years ago. These dirtied bell-bottom jeans which used to be stylish back then (sans the dirt and te holes, of course) and that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt Liam wore come summer or winter. He was also covered in vomit, just like on that day forty-three years ago.

“What?! Surprised?! I waited for you all these years. I know you would come! You belong in here with me!”

Crowley looked the apparition up and down. As far as hellish torments went, this was pretty mild. He found himself almost disappointed. He rolled his eyes.

“Whatever.”

“Aren’t you one bit sorry? I am here because of you!” screamed Liam. Crowley always found him a self-pitying ass.

“Please, I bet you are here for all those grannies you robbed.”

“I would have stopped. I would have cleaned up and become a decent person,” argued Liam. Except it had no effect on Crowley. Four decades back he used to hear the promises from Liam that he would quit drugs and return to school to study law almost daily. He ended up choking on his vomit instead. “But, no you have to go and deal me! ‘This is good stuff, Liam, clean, not like that shit you use.’ Well, guess what. It wasn’t good, it fucking killed me!”

“Overdose killed you because you never had any self-control.”

Liam shook his head disbelieving. “Still not even sorry from you.”

“I went to jail for it, Liam, or whatever you are. I already paid for my crimes.”

“You think this isn’t real?” Liam grabbed his hands. “It’s bloody Hell real. Hell, Crowley! We are in Hell. Do you know how long does the withdrawal last in Hell?! Forever!”

“Alright, alright!” said Crowley, yanking his hand back.

“There is only eternal torment, Crowley. The only relief is when we got a chance to come here, to get our revenge on you.”

“Our? What do you mean…”

A heavy meaty hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder. “Tony!” said a cheerful voice. Crowley turned back in dread, to face a grey-haired man with a buzzcut. “So how did it end with that promise that you will never be anything like me? I see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all?”

“Dad?!”

“Hello, sonny.” grinned Anthony Crowley Sr. malevolently.

Unmeasured time later the door opened with a metallic screech and a dark head peered inside. Crowley was lying on the ground, getting kicked, hit, stomped on and mocked. His tortured didn’t have a wild imagination, so he only lay on the ground and took it. Seriously he almost got worse on the playground.

“Your time’s up!” shouted the person at the door waving a broken clipboard.

“But we aren’t done yet.” protested one of the souls. The souls of people Crowley had apparently hurt during his lifetime and now they came to take revenge. Some people he didn’t even recognize. Some were people he used to get drugs. Some were his fellow inmates. It didn’t matter to Crowley. He could bear their abuse with an impassive face. The only person who could hurt him wasn’t here.

“I don’t care.” said the person...another demon?...and snapped his fingers. All the people disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“You, on the ground, get up!”

Crowley got up. “Is that it?”

Demon, he was a small dark man with hair shaped into little horns and kohl around his eyes, asked hopefully, “Are you broken?”

“Sorry to break it to you but you have to try harder than this. I can take a few hits and they didn’t really say anything I didn’t torment myself with over the years. I paid for a very expensive therapy, you know, but it worked. I came to terms with my past a long time ago. If you really wanted to hurt me, you should have brought Aziraphale.”

The demon checked something on his clipboard. “Can’t do. According to the treaty 23666/45b/3456, we are not allowed to use a likeness of the residents of Heaven to torment the souls of the damned.”

The celebratory fanfare played itself in Crowley’s ears. Not that he had really doubted that Aziraphale would make it to Heaven, but it was nice to have a confirmation.

“Now, let’s go.”

“Wait, you are not going to try again? To break me?”

“No, we need the room for the next one.” The demon waved him out and lead him away to the overcrowded corridors of Hell.

“Where are we going then, um...what’s your name anyway?

“Eric.”

“Eric? That’s not very demonic.”

“It’s a respectable pagan name. It’s better than my previous name.”

“What was your previous name?”

“They called me Ya Piece of Shit.” shrugged Eric.

“Ah.”

“We are going to your place of eternal punishment.” they pushed around the huge demon who rubbed his back against the support pillar so hard, the ceiling was shaking like it was an earthquake...or was it a hellquake? “Now, if you don’t have any special punishment designed,” Eric flipped through the papers on his clipboard, “and you don’t, you have a couple of choices.”

“I get to choose my punishment?” wondered Crowley.

“Of course, this is Hell. We are big on choices here.” confirmed Eric.”But I am contractually obligated to tell you that once you decide on your punishment you can’t change it. But you can be removed by any demon to suffer torture of their design or conscripted by the management as slave labour.”

“So what are they? The choices?”

“Well, you can get frozen in the lake up to your waist, piranhas nipping at your legs while you never lose consciousness.”

Crowley grimaced. “What else.”

“You can bathe in boiling sulfur. Painful, but you can chat with the demons who stoke the fires under the cauldron. It’s a nice friendly atmosphere.”

“What next?”

“You can go to the hole. Just human souls squeezed on top of each other so close they can’t move, stomping on each other. But you have a company! Then you can get crushed by a rock for eternity. Or you can get closed into a tomb and eaten by bugs. The next one is…”

But Crowley was no longer paying attention. He thought he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd and set off after him, making his way through the throng of ugly smelly demons.

“Harry.”

Yes, it was him. The same trench coat and bright blonde hair.

“Harry!” he tugged at his sleeve. The man turned. It was undoubtedly Harry, but his eyes were unnaturally black, he had spots of some rash on his face and he had, for some reason, a toad on his head.

“What do you want, vermin?”

“It’s you, Harry, what...you are a demon?” Crowley laughed. “Of course you are a demon. They never found a trace of you.”

“Duke Hastur, sorry.” Eric caught up to them. He sounded anxious.

“Eric, why don’t you keep a better eye on that?” Hastur pointed at Crowley.

“Sorry, your greasiness…” But Hastur raised his hand, snapped his finger and Eric disappeared in the short blaze of fire, leaving only a charred mark on the floor and a clipboard, now a bit burned at the edges.

“You were Harry Levin. Forty years ago,” said Crowley forcefully. “God, I always thought you were a little weird. And you were a demon, you,” realization dawned on his face. “It’s your fault.”

Hastur narrowed his eyes. Then he laughed. “Of course. Crowley!” Hastur turned to a demon standing next to him, a black man with a chameleon on his head. “One of the mortals I tempted. And no you are here.” Hastur slapped him on the shoulder and his companion nodded appreciatively.

“Tempted? You got me into drugs. You got me to deal for you. You made me into a criminal.”

“I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want. Did I force you? You did it all of your own free will. You could have been a saint, a saviour of little children. But your soul was rotten, ripe for picking. Tempting you was easy. I stole you from under Heaven's nose,” Hastur clicked his fingers, "just like this. They should give me commendation for you."

White-hot rage burned in Crowley. He could have been in Heaven, he could have spent the eternity with Aziraphale. But…

He did something he didn't do in years. He attacked in anger. In a slip of a second, the white-hot rage turned into white-hot pain, leaving him screaming and thrashing on the floor. He didn’t know how long it took, it seemed a short moment and the eternity at the same time, but when the pain abated, he was lying on the floor, demons and souls likewise stepping over him. Hastur or his companion were nowhere in sight.

Eric stood above him, picking his clipboard. He still smelled a bit of fire. “Right, where were we. Oh yes, the snake pit…”

“No,” said Crowley, picking himself up.

“No?” asked Eric as if the simple word had no meaning to him.

“I am going back. I want to file that appeal after all.”


End file.
